


What Would You Do

by Slenderlock



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fake Dating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tony No, What Would You Do For A Klondike Bar, What Would You Do To Make Two Supersoldiers Stop Pining, no civil war spoilers, the twist is that the Fake Dating actually stays Fake, this fic is the coagulation of every single "Tony No" ever uttered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look, Klondike.” Tony draws a complicated diagram in the air. “Sometimes the only way you can get Capsicle to do anything you want him to do-” He draws a circle and drags his finger to the right. “Is to get him angry enough to make him want to do it <i>himself.”</i> He mimics a small explosion, then looks expectantly at Barnes.</p><p>Barnes blinks. </p><p><i>“Ergo,”</i> Tony says, “go out with me.”</p><p> </p><p>  <b>[EDIT: Now includes an epilogue!]</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

At any given moment, there are three places to find Barnes.

The gym, his and Cap’s shared floor, and nowhere. No, really- if he’s not in the first two, the chances of finding him decrease to somewhere between 0% and never. So when Tony pushes the gym door open and finds an angry brunette beating the life out of a punching bag, it takes a lot of self-control not to visibly sag in relief.

“Hey, Klondike,” Tony says, and Barnes grits his teeth. He strikes the punching bag with a little more force.

“Your nicknames need work,” he grunts. “They’re getting worse.”

“I think you mean better,” Tony says. He folds his arms, watching Barnes punch the bag.

“They were more creative when you first started.”

“Hey,” Tony says, holding up a hand, “Klondike’s better than _Red Scare.”_ He frowns. “I think I still have that bruise, actually.”

Barnes rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t Natasha be _Red Scare?”_

“No, no,” Tony says, waving Barnes’s words away. “Because your arm’s got the red on it, and you’re scary.”

“She’s a redhead,” Barnes points out, “who is much more likely to kill you.”

“Eh.” Tony shrugs. “Debatable. You look pretty murder-y.” He blinks. “In the best way possible, I mean.”

Barnes gives one last punch to the bag before letting out a breath and stepping away.

“Is there a good way to look murder-y?” he asks, unwinding the tape from his right hand.

“Uhh.” Tony thinks. “No. Not really. No.” He snaps his fingers, remembering. “Thor’s brother took a good crack at it, though.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Barnes rolls his eyes.

Tony shrugs, as if to say: _guilty as charged._

“Is there a reason you’re talking to me?” Barnes asks.

“What?” Tony blinks again. “Oh! Right! I had a point!”

Barnes raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Go out with me,” Tony says. Barnes opens his mouth. “Okay,” Tony says, “okay, hear me out.”

Barnes’s mouth closes. Clenches. Opens again.

“I’m listening.”

Tony claps his hands together and beams.

“Okay, so,” he says. “So, don’t actually go out with me. I’ve got Pepper, you know.”

“I know.”

Tony sighs. “I’m just sick of Dreamy McSad-eyes mooning all over the place.”

Barnes frowns. “Which one’s Dreamy McSad-eyes?”

Tony gestures vaguely with his hand. “Both of you. But I’m referring to the other one.”

Barnes leans on the punching bag, thoroughly amused. “I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Impatiently, Tony waves his hands faster. “The one with the giant puppy dog eyes- I swear to god, that’s why Pepper ever lets him do anything, it’s because of those damn eyes-”

“So why don’t you just take Steve out?” Barnes asks.

“Because he’ll be all sad and mopey, and he’d probably cry all over my shirt.” He looks down at his shirt, which is coated from collar to hem with grease stains. “It’s worth more than his entire apartment,” he insists.

Barnes shakes his head and goes back to unwrapping the tape. “Steve doesn’t cry in front of people.”

“It’s called hyperbole, Klondike.”

Barnes undoes the last of the tape and tucks it under the waistband of his sweats. “That’s still a terrible nickname.”

But he technically still hasn’t said _no,_ yet, so Tony holds out his arms in a _whaddaya say_ gesture. “Well?”

“I don’t see how-” Barnes looks Tony up and down, _“that_ would help your problem.”

“It will.”

Barnes crosses his arms. “How?”

“Look, Klondike.” Tony steps over beside Barnes and begins drawing a complicated diagram in the air. He doesn’t have his holograms to help him, so Barnes shouldn't feel too bad about not understanding a bit of it. “Sometimes the only way you can get Capsicle to do anything you want him to do-” He draws a circle and drags his finger to the right. “-is to get him angry enough to make him want to do it _himself_.” He mimics a small explosion, then looks expectantly at Barnes.

Barnes blinks.

 _“Ergo,”_ Tony says, “go out with me.”

* * *

“Okay,” Barnes says, as Tony pours them both drinks. “So what, exactly, are you trying to get him to do?” He crosses his legs up on the table- the dining room table, to be precise, because there’s no way Tony’s discussing this in a place that smells like underarm sweat 24/7.

“Um,” Tony says, and picks his own drink up. He eyes it for a moment before taking a sip. “Preferably, _not_ punch me.” He takes another sip. “Which, incidentally, is also why I’m doing this with you instead of him.”

Because Tony knows, surer than anything, that if he’d tried to pull this stunt the other way around, Barnes’s arm would be lodged thoroughly between his ribcage.

“Real specific,” Barnes says, not touching his glass.

“Okay, fine,” Tony says, eyeing Barnes shrewdly. “What would you do if you saw me taking him out?”

Barnes doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell you off for seeing someone behind Pepper’s back.”

Tony, halfway through another swig, sets his glass down in frustration. “Just- okay- just ignore Pepper for a second.” He winces. “Don’t actually do that, ever.”

“I’d be ticked, I guess.” Barnes shrugs. “But.” He doesn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from the glass on the table, still untouched. “But I’d hope that you were treating him well. I'd... I'd hope he was happy.”

“Oh my god,” Tony groans, “you are _impossible.”_ Tony moves to take another swig, but gets nothing but ice. He snatches up Barnes’s glass and starts to drain it instead. “Okay. Okay. What if I was, like, making out with him.”

Barnes’s face twists.

Tony squints. “Like. Two feet away from you.”

He’s suddenly glad he took Barnes’s glass, because he’s pretty sure if he hadn’t, it would be lying in shattered pieces on the table right now.

“Just. Tongue.” Tony shakes his head. “Everywhere. All over.”

Later, Tony will tell Pepper that the dent in the table was from Thor’s hammer, because _I told you, Pep, the table’s not worthy, no, it didn’t have anything to do with Barnes wait why are you giving me that look wait no-_

“He’s going to punch you,” Barnes growls. “I hope you’re aware you’re running that risk.”

“Is that a yes?” Tony drains the last of Barnes’s glass and slams it down next to his own. “I’m counting that as a yes. I need another drink.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barnes says sourly. “Fine.”

“Oh,” Tony says, reaching the brandy bottle. “For the record, Pepper only told me not to do anything ‘too stupid’ when I told her about this, so that counts as her blessing.”

Barnes seems to ignore him. “You should probably not kiss me,” he says, running a hand over his stubble in what’s either an attempt to look thoughtful and studious, or an actual nervous tick; Tony isn’t quite sure which, yet. It’s hard to know what’s habit with Barnes and what’s carefully constructed acting.

“For your sake?” Tony asks, bringing the bottle back to the table, “or for his?”

“For _your_ sake.”

“You sure?” Tony waggles his eyebrows, pouring himself a new glass. “I’m a good kisser.”

“Sure.” Barnes looks unimpressed. “And if Steve happens to see?”

Tony snorts. _“Happens?”_

Barnes sighs. “I guess I’d be obligated to keep him from kicking your ass.”

“You’d be obligated,” Tony says, holding the now full glass up for emphasis, “to keep kissing me.”

“Only if you’re good,” Barnes says, and it’s so much like actual flirting that Tony nearly drops his glass.

“That, uh.” He adjusts his grip on the glass, careful not to let it spill. “That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.”

Barnes’s mouth twitches at the edges. “Take it how you will.”

“So,” Tony says, setting the glass down. “So. So. So it’s a plan?”

“I guess so.” Barnes shrugs.

“Thank God.” Tony eyes the glass, takes a moment, and decides better. “Let’s do this.”

“What are we doing, exactly?”

Tony stands, unable to sit still under Barnes’s dead-eyes. He grabs the brandy bottle and puts it back on the kitchen counter. “We’re going on a date,” he says, putting his hands together palm-to-palm for emphasis. “Well, not actually,” he adds, cocking his head to the side as he starts to pace through the kitchen. “We’re going to go out on a date and pretend we don’t notice Dreamy McSad-eyes following us, and you’re going to look fuckable and we’re going to be as mushy as humanly possible.”

Tony kicks his chair under the table when he doubles back to the table again.

“And at some point, one of my ribs is probably going to be broken. But!” He holds a finger up. “It’s in the name of True Love, so it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Still unimpressed, Barnes leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “How do you know he’ll even follow?”

Tony waves the question away. “He will.”

“He might not.” And there’s the almost-smile again. “Steve tends to sulk.”

“So he’ll sulk and follow.” Tony shrugs. “He can multitask.”

The almost-smile turns into a full on smirk.

“That sounds like betting material,” Barnes says.

“If I win, I get to tinker with your arm,” Tony says without thinking.

“Ugh.” Barnes huffs. “Fine.”

“I win,” Tony clarifies, “if my plan works and McSad-eyes busts in and sweeps you off your feet and carries you into the sunset.” He blinks. “Metaphorically speaking. And. With or without my broken ribs.”

“And if I win?” Barnes prompts.

“That’s up to you,” Tony says. “You know, in the fairness of betting.”

Barnes’s eyes flicker, and Tony knows he should have taken the chance when he’d had it. Offered the guy a ride in his suit, or something. Or literally _anything else_ other than giving him the freedom of his choice.

“If I win,” Barnes says slowly, and Tony tries to stop pacing. He walks into the kitchen counter and smacks his knee on the silverware drawer. He leans on it casually, only wincing a little. The brandy bottle sits next to him, brushing his side. He looks at it.

“If I win,” Barnes says, “you lose your nickname privileges.”

Tony nearly drops the bottle, spewing brandy all over his shirt. Barnes snorts as he watches Tony try to put the bottle back on the counter, wipe his mouth, and cough the brandy out of his lungs all at the same time.

“Do we have a deal?” Barnes stands and pushes in his chair, smooth as you please.

Tony scowls, looking down at his ruined shirt. “Ugh. Fine.”

The smirk turns from murder-y to full on _murderous._

“Perfect,” Barnes says, “then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, watching as Barnes stalks over to the elevator without another word, or so much as a look over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

* * *

 

It might end up being one of the worst breakfasts Tony’s ever had.

Which is saying a lot, actually. In the whole history of Terrible Breakfasts Tony Has Had, this one is at least among the top five.

Okay, maybe top ten.

“I don’t care what you say, there’s no such thing as _just a_ _small floor,”_ Pepper insists, looking intimidating even with her hair done up as messily as Tony’s ever allowed to see it- i.e. in a half tied ponytail. “You can’t just add on extra floors whenever you want a clean workspace.”

“Of course I can!” Tony skips over the coffee machine and reaches for the brandy bottle. Pepper smacks his hand and shoves a banana into it.

“No, you can’t.”

“We live in a _tower,_ Pep. What’s the point of living in a tower if you can’t expand?”

“You can’t _expand_ in a tower!”

“You can if you expand up.”

“You’re not building another lab floor.”

“But-”

Someone snatches the banana out of his hand, and they both look to see Barnes leaning casually against the fridge. He peels it from the bottom- the _animal_ \- and looks at Tony.

“So, tonight,” he says, as if Pepper isn’t standing less than a foot away from Tony. “You wanted me to look fuckable, right?”

Pepper’s eyes narrow.

“Tony,” she says.

“Uh,” Tony says.

“But not, like,” Barnes gesticulates with the banana in the air to make his point, “not like ‘I live on the streets’ fuckable. Like, classy fuckable.”

“Yeah,” Tony says.

 _“Tony,”_ Pepper says.

“Like, ‘I dressed up especially for you because I knew it was a nice night out, but I’m secretly hoping you’ll run out of self-control and drag me into the bathrooms for a quickie’ fuckable. That kind of fuckable. Right?”

He says it like he’s commenting on the exact shade of puce Tony’s face is rapidly approaching, as he peels the other sides of the banana. When he’s finished, he takes a large bite out of the end and looks expectantly at Tony.

“Sure,” Tony says.

Pepper doesn’t say a word. Which, actually, is even more terrifying than her ‘I’m angry at you’ voice.

Barnes hands Tony the banana.

“Don’t forget to make reservations,” he says, and promptly vaults out the kitchen window.

The banana is uncomfortably warm in his hand.

“So hey,” he says, tearing his eyes away from it and forcing himself to look at Pepper. “You, uh, you know how you said I should be getting to know him better?”

“That was five months ago,” Pepper says coolly. “When he _moved in.”_

“Ah,” Tony says. “Right.”

And so it begins.

* * *

 

It’s called _Glasshouse,_ and it overlooks the waterfront. He takes Pepper here for her birthday and for their anniversary every year. The restaurant is filled to bursting on a weekend night, but now it’s only sparsely decorated with guests. The chairs are comfortable and wide, with plush seats and backs, and Bocote wood frames.

The room is dimly lit; the ceiling is painted black, and the walls are comprised of floor length windows that give a dazzling view of the starry sky. The carpet has a warm, chestnut pattern, leading down the stairs and into the main dining room. On the left wall, a small fireplace burns happily below a large oil painting.

As the server hands them their menus, Barnes looks more and more uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, innocently. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Barnes scowls. “Of course not.”

“Because it kind of looks like you’re nervous.”

Barnes flips his menu up so it blocks his face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Okay.” Tony grabs the top of Barnes’s menu with his forefinger and his thumb and tips it down. “First rule of fake-dating: don’t act like you want this ‘over with’.”

“I _do_ want it over with.”

“I’m sure he-” Tony lets his eyes slide just over Barnes’s shoulder long enough for Barnes to notice, “-would love to think so, too.”

Barnes stiffens. “He’s here?”

Tony snorts. “Of course he’s here. I told you he’d be here.”

“Where?”

Beside the other wall, the restaurant’s pianist begins to play. It’s soft, quiet, but Tony can still just make out the melody line for _Bad Romance._ And seriously? That song was popular, like, five years ago. Still sounds good on the piano, though, he’ll give the guy credit for that.

Behind the pianist, also hiding behind a menu, is a suspicious looking pile of muscles topped with a tuft of blonde hair.

“We’re not looking for him,” Tony says calmly, still holding Barnes’s menu.

“Of course we’re looking for him, that was the entire point of this stupid-”

“We’re not looking for him,” Tony repeats, calmly. This is the part he’s good at, after all. “We’re on a date, and I’m the most charming person you’ve ever met. And we’re having a wonderful time.”

“Hardly,” Barnes growls.

“Look, I’m showing you my favorite thing to get,” Tony says, bringing another hand up to point at Barnes’s menu. “See, look- the Berkshire pork. It’s got black truffle in it, so if you’ve got expensive taste…”

“I survived on protein bars and water fountains for almost a year.”

“And now I’m treating you.” Tony taps the menu before letting it go and leaning back. “Seriously, Barnes, live a little.”

Barnes looks at the menu again.

“Pork sounds… nice.”

Tony grins.

The night actually doesn’t go that badly. Barnes charms the hell out of the waitress, which serves as a perfect opportunity for Tony to smack his arm and remind him “you’re taken tonight, Sweetheart.” After which, of course, he screws up his face and says “remind me never to call anyone ‘Sweetheart’ ever again.”

And Barnes laughs at that, actually laughs.

Behind the pianist, Steve’s shoulders tense. Tony grins. Barnes raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve got his attention,” Tony says, shrugging.

Barnes rolls his right shoulder and leans forward. The candlelight illuminates his face- his _shaved_ face, Tony realizes abruptly. His usual layer of stubble is trimmed back, barely there- shaved away into a neat pattern around his lips and just below his chin. His hair’s pulled up in a neat bun, and-

“Are you wearing eyeliner?” Tony asks, squinting and leaning forward a bit to check. And yep, there’s a thin black line running under each of his eyes.

“You said to look fuckable,” Barnes says, shrugging.

“I…” Tony can’t really say anything to that. Because Barnes had certainly followed his instructions to a T.

“People do it,” Barnes says.

“What?” Tony blinks. “What? Oh- no, I don’t mean- I don’t have anything against it- _I’ve_ done it before-”

“What’s wrong?” Barnes asks innocently, and slides his hand across the table so it rests beside the candle burning in the center. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“You’re a menace,” Tony growls. Barnes’s fingers twitch invitingly beside the candle.

“So I’ve been told.” Barnes grins, and maybe there’s a chance this night won’t end up being so bad after all. True Love, Tony reminds himself. He’s doing this for True Love.

The waitress comes back to refill the bread rolls, and Barnes flashes her another smile. She blushes, and takes the empty tray back with her.

“Thought I told you to keep your eyes over here,” Tony says, pointing to himself.

“You’re treating me,” Barnes says easily, and picks up a bread roll. “So I can keep my eyes wherever I want.”

“I- that’s fair.”

Barnes’s smile falls and he glares at Tony.

“What’s he doing now?” he demands.

“Look, I can’t make it obvious that I know he’s there,” Tony protests, holding his hands up in defense.

When Barnes somehow manages to glare _louder,_ he relents, checking over Barnes’s shoulder. Beside the pianist, Steve is staring resolutely at his menu.

“He’s just…” He shrugs. “Looking down.”

Barnes whips around and looks for himself- the epitome of subtlety, the most famed assassin not in history books, the man behind nearly thirty organized murders- and jolts the table as he turns back to Tony, chair honking under the movement of his weight.

Behind him, Steve looks up. Tony pastes on a smile.

“Laugh,” he says through gritted teeth. “I just told you one of my amazing puns.”

“Your puns are terrible.”

“Fuck you.”

Barnes laughs. It’s halfway genuine, and he leans back in his seat. Steve goes back to pretending to look at his menu, and Tony slides an inch or so down his seat in relief.

“He looks nice,” Barnes says, more to himself than to Tony.

“Oh, yeah, look at that. He cleaned up.”

Without the menu in the way, it’s easy to see the suit Steve’s stuck himself in- white shirt, carefully tied navy tie, navy jacket to match. He fits in seamlessly with the crowd.

“Switch seats with me,” Barnes says, at the same time Tony says, _“no.”_

“What?” Barnes’s eyes widen. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll give us away.” Tony shakes his head.

“I will _not.”_

“You will.”

“Stark-”

Tony grabs a bread roll and stuffs it in Barnes’s mouth before he can get out another word. Barnes makes a sound of surprise, glaring at Tony, and his next word is muffled by the bread lodged between his teeth. He grabs it and chews as angrily as he can.

Tony cackles, leaning back in his chair and giving a clap for good measure. He brushes tears out of his eyes, watching Barnes chew and swallow, and then Barnes breaks into a grin and laughs, too. He snorts, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, and tosses the remains of the bread roll over onto Tony’s plate.

“Gross,” Tony says, pushing the plate away.

“Finish what you started,” Barnes says, nodding to the roll. And then, quieter, “is he watching?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony says, grabbing the roll and tearing off a piece. By the pianist, Steve is gripping the menu so hard it’s actually shaking.

“Good,” Barnes says, and grabs Tony’s wrist. He yanks it over and eats the piece of bread right out of Tony’s fingers. Before Tony can say anything, he’s taken Tony’s index finger into his mouth. “Now?”

“Uh.” Tony looks. “Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t move.”

Barnes leans over, grabs his tie, and kisses him.

Tony does his best to act like A) he doesn’t have a girlfriend and B) he’s not being watched by an incredibly murder-y looking super soldier. Barnes tugs at his tie, which seems to be the cue to _do something, stupid,_ so he kisses back.

 _It’s Hugh Jackman,_ he tells himself. _It’s Colin Firth. You’re not kissing Barnes, you’re not kissing Barnes, you’re not about to get murdered for kissing Barnes because you’re not kissing Barnes-_

Barnes pulls off and licks his lips.

“Now?”

It takes a moment to remember what Barnes means. He supposes that means it looks natural. He looks over Barnes’s shoulder.

Steve looks back. And stands up.

“Oh,” Tony says, and Steve takes a step forward. “Shit."

* * *

 

He makes it all the way to the bathrooms before Steve catches him.

“Hey, now,” Tony says, as Steve grabs him by the collar. “Hey, buddy, Steve, _Steve-”_

He takes a step backwards and Steve’s hand closes around his throat- and then he’s backed up against the wall, eye to eye with Steve. “Steve, buddy, pal- okay, sure, neck grabbing, that’s- okay, I probably deserve that, sure, I get it- but if you think about it,” Tony babbles, and Steve’s fingers are really pushing in against his neck, hey, isn’t that interesting, “if you take electron repulsion into account, technically my tongue never _actually_ touched his-”

Steve’s thumb presses up against his windpipe and he pedals his feet against the floor- except they can’t actually reach the floor, because Steve’s half a foot taller than him and wow, strong enough to lift him up off the ground by his _neck-_

“No science talk, okay,” Tony says, “okay, fair enough, just- ow, ow, _ow-”_

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve snarls, actually _snarls._

“What?” Tony musters up the most innocent face he can make. “What, I’m just- I’m just taking Klondike out for dinner, nothing wrong with that.”

“Don’t call him that.” Steve lets go of his neck and he falls to the floor, knees bending only just in time to keep him from crumbling like a sack of wet meat. Which, technically speaking, isn’t far from the truth. “What are you doing?”

Tony rubs his neck, which is probably going to bruise just a little tomorrow. Well. It’s better than a broken rib.

“I’m taking him out to _dinner,”_ he says.

“You-” Steve looks angry enough to hit him. “I knew you were…” He doesn’t say _an ass,_ but they both know it’s there. “But I didn’t know you would stoop this low.”

“Who said anything about stooping?” Tony gapes. “I’m being charming!”

“You’re trying to-” Steve grits his teeth. “There are plenty of other people you can- you can charm, if that’s what you’re calling it.”

“Calling _what?”_

“This!” Steve throws his hands up. “This- taking him out to a nice restaurant, just so you can- can bring him home afterwards and-”

Something in the mirror catches Tony’s eye. He tears away from it and looks straight at Steve, panic rooting him in place.

“This isn’t- no,” he says, pathetically. He tries again. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Really,” Steve says, icily. “Because it looks like you’re playing with him for a quick-” Being Captain America, Steve can’t quite bring himself to say _fuck._ At least, not in the public bathroom of a very, very nice restaurant. And not in front of Tony.

“I’m not!”

“I won’t let you do something like that to him,” Steve says, jabbing a finger onto Tony’s chest. His head smacks back against the mirror.

“Something like- like what?”

“I won’t let you hurt him.” Steve takes the finger back and looks at his feet. Oh, and there he is, Dreamy McSad-eyes. Tony’s fingers itch to pull his phone from his pocket and snap a picture, just for posterity.

“I’m not gonna hurt your boy,” Tony says, holding his hands up. “All right? Calm down.”

“You’re going to throw him away the minute you’re finished,” Steve says accusingly. “And- and he deserves better than that.” He’s not even trying to look at Tony anymore, as he folds his arms and bites his lip in the saddest way possible.

“Okay,” Tony says. The chance of getting a broken rib seems to have decreased exponentially, so he only feels a little terrified in asking, “what do you think he deserves, then?”

“I-” Steve folds his arms. With all the will he can muster, Tony forces himself to keep his gaze trained forward.

“I think,” Steve says, “he deserves to be happy.” His gigantic fists unclench. “Whatever that means.”

“Okay,” Tony says, carefully.

“He deserves to make his own choices, and- he deserves to… to _want_ things,” Steve says, frowning like he doesn’t know quite how to put this into words.

“Okay,” Tony says again. “Okay, right.”

“Even if what he wants isn’t-” Steve’s lips tighten, preparing to say the word _me,_ but it doesn’t come out.

“Okay,” Tony says. “Okay, so- do you want, like, a hug, or something?”

“I’m sorry.”

Fuck, that’s worse than a broken rib. Tony coughs. He’s about to interject with _um,_ but Steve keeps going.

“I shouldn’t have- this was a mistake.” He wraps his arms around his middle. “You should- I should go.”

“Um,” Tony says.

“He looked happy,” Steve says, taking a step back, “with- with you.”

“Uh,” Tony says.

“He should be happy.” Steve nods. “It’s all I want for him. It’s all I ever wanted for him.” Out of his left eye, a single tear works its way down his cheek.

 _Jesus_ , Tony thinks.

“Jesus,” Barnes says.

Steve freezes.

“Okay, just to be fair,” Barnes says, and Steve turns very slowly on his heel. “To be fair,” Barnes says, “we might have planned the dinner, but we didn’t actually plan on the whole 'heart-to-heart' thing. That was all you.”

Steve stares at him.

“Look,” Barnes says. “Look, Steve- you… you meant that, right? All that crap about me being happy?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“Okay.” Barnes nods stiffly. “And- and you meant the part about me wanting…” He trails off, looking expectantly at Steve.

“Bucky,” Steve says, “I…”

Tony, who’s still closer to Steve right now than Steve is to Barnes, wonders if it’s possible to actually melt into the floors and slide out of the room undetected. Then again, changing from a semi-solid into a liquid would probably be cause for alarm.

“Stark,” Barnes says.

“Uh,” Tony says.

“There’s still a table for two out there, right?” Barnes asks, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

“Um,” Tony says. “Yes? It’s an expensive table, but it’s not immune to the law of conservation of mass-”

“Great.” Barnes gives a smile that’s all teeth, and Tony’s jaw snaps closed. “So, here’s what’s gonna happen.” He points a finger at Tony. “You,” he says, “are gonna go back home and tell Pepper you’re sorry, and if you’re very, _very_ lucky, she’ll forgive you.”

Tony nods. “Great,” he says, “that sounds great. Perfect plan.”

Barnes ignores him. “And _you,”_ he says, pointing at Steve. Flabbergasted, Steve looks back at him. “You and I are gonna go out there and have a nice dinner, and we’re gonna talk.”

Steve nods wordlessly.

“And if _you’re_ very, very lucky,” Barnes says, and there’s a quirk to his lips that Tony really, really doesn’t like- “then I just might take you home and-”

“Okay!” Tony says, and claps his hands together. “Okay, so we’re all sorted, right?”

Steve and Barnes both glare at him, then. He takes an instinctive step backwards.

Tony says. “Yep, yes. Doing that. Out. Going.” He squeezes past Steve and inches over to the doorway as fast as he can, not looking at McSad-eyes or McMurder-eyes as he goes. At the door, he looks back at them. “Uh- be safe?”

Steve’s ears go pink. Barnes’s smile goes _sharp_.

“Leaving!” Tony says, and scampers out the door. He doubles over in the hallway just outside the bathroom, and catches his breath. Even through the door, he can hear the faint sounds of talking, then a _thunk,_ the sound of running water, the sound of running water being turned off violently, and then the voices stop abruptly.

 _Game,_ Tony thinks, _set._

He pulls his phone out to text Pepper. Another _thunk,_ more running water, and the sound of laughing.

_Match._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an omegle RP, some of Bucky's first dialogue is taken from there. Credit to the electron repulsion line goes to my friend [agnt-romanov](http://www.agnt-romanov.tumblr.com)  
> Special thanks to my two betas: Sasha and [thespiritlamp](http://www.thespiritlamp.tumblr.com) for beta reading this, you guys are great!  
> Might do an epilogue for this later, it'll be added as a second chapter. (But I'm horribly lazy, so maybe not)  
> This is what I do instead of writing my WIPs ;A;  
> Comments and kudos are love, thanks so much :D


	2. Chapter 2

“I want to be mad at you.”

“But you’re not.”

“But I’m not.”

Steve smiles at that, not even breaking eye contact as he admits it. The pianist on the other side of the room seems to have recognized them at last, because his rendition of _Hot n Cold_ begins to sound suspiciously like the old theme song Steve remembers dancing to. He looks at the pianist, who winks and keeps playing. Steve makes a mental note to fish around in his wallet for all the change he can find.

After Bucky explains the situation to the waitress- who Steve decides he doesn’t like for some reason, but gives her a polite smile all the same- she gives them both menus again and tells them to take their time, and that no, it’s really no trouble at all.

Steve watches her retreat back behind the dining room walls, and a minute or two later, she returns with another uniformed man in tow. They talk quietly to each other for a few moments before going separate ways. He goes to the left, her to the right, and they start talking to the other tables in hushed tones.

Flabbergasted, Steve’s mouth drops open as one by one, the other patrons begin getting up out of their seats, taking their plates of food, and retreating from the room.

“Bucky,” he hisses.

“Oh look, that’s nice,” Bucky says, halfway through another bread roll.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve repeats. “Bucky, we have to talk to them, this is ridiculous, we can’t just make them leave-”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno. S’nice.”

The pianist reverts back to his 2009 repertoire, making the melodies gradually more and more complicated and impressive as he watches the waitstaff escorting the tables out of the room. By the time the sixth and last table full of guests has left, he’s smashing out what Steve thinks is a partially improvised version of _Viva La Vida,_ complete with frilly right hand solos.

“So,” Bucky says, holding his water glass up and inspecting it. Steve looks at his own glass- which, of course, had once sat in front of Tony. He doubts Tony had even touched it. 

“So,” Steve agrees. He picks up the glass and takes a sip. “This is a… nice place.”

“Mmhmm.” Bucky sets his glass down without bringing it to his lips.

“I really think we should talk to someone,” Steve says, voice low. “They shouldn’t have to leave because of us.”

“Steve, relax.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Enjoy it. We’re bein’ pampered.”

“I don’t _like_ being pampered.”

“Well, I do.” Bucky finishes off the bread roll, humming happily and finishing it off with a long sip of water.

Steve smiles a little at that.

The door closes after the last table leaves, and the waitstaff show no sign of coming back. The pianist finishes with one long rolled chord, looks anxiously at the doors, and slumps his shoulders in relief. He adjusts his jacket and starts a somber rendition of Owl City’s _Fireflies._

Bucky snorts into his water glass.

A minute or so passes before the waitress returns, looking slightly haggard.

“Sirs,” she says, holding out a notepad and a pen. “Have you decided yet?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding. “I’ll have-”

“Ma’am,” Steve butts in, and Bucky glares. “Ma’am, really, we appreciate the effort, but there’s no need to run out the other guests here, we don’t mind sharing the space.”

“Oh, Mr. Stark insisted,” the waitress explains, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “They’ve all been moved upstairs to the balcony seating, and all their meals- and yours- have been paid for in full, with interest.” She adjusts her glasses. “Courtesy of Mr. Stark.”

“Oh,” Steve says shortly. “Well, that’s… better.”

The pianist begins playing faster, modulating the entire piece up a key.

“He insisted you two be given the room to yourselves,” the waitress continues, looking between them. “With the exception of our pianist.”

Gratefully, the piece modulates back down.

“Great, great,” Bucky says impatiently. “Sunshine and roses for everyone- can I order?”

“Certainly, sir,” the waitress says, clicking her pen on.

Bucky orders for both of them, because Steve doesn’t know how fancy restaurants are exactly supposed to work around here- you don’t order an item off the menu, you order a certain course of meal and then pick from the list- so he ends up with something he can’t even begin to pronounce.

It’s delicious, though.

“So,” Bucky says, between bites of his pork.

Steve looks at him and frowns, slightly.

“Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You don’t like it?” Bucky licks his fork.

“What?” Steve drops the slice of meat from his own fork. “No, no I- no, I do,” he stammers. “I just- you’ve never worn it before, I was just wondering if-”

“Blame Stark.” Bucky grabs a bread roll and dips it in the sauce spread on his plate. “He told me to look fuckable.”

Steve snorts this time.

“You’re not wrong,” he says, looking back down at his plate.

“Yeah?” Bucky reaches over with his fork and spears some of Steve’s Wagyu style beef. “Think I nailed it?”

Steve’s ears go pink. “Um,” he says.

“Relax,” Bucky says, through a mouthful of beef. “We’ve still got dessert to get through. You’ve got a while.”

Steve goes back to his beef, cutting it decisively into pieces.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Hey, you’re not actually mad, right?”

“Not… mad,” Steve says.

“But?”

“But.” Steve takes a sip of his water. “But couldn’t there have been an easier way to do this… sort of thing?”

“Probably,” Bucky says. “But we got a nice dinner out of it, didn’t we?”

Steve looks guiltily at his lap. “I think I bruised him.”

Bucky snorts. “He’s been bruised before.”

“For good reasons. This wasn’t a good reason.”

“It was perfectly good reason.” Bucky shrugs. “Anyway, he won the bet, he should be happy.”

“Bet?” Steve repeats, slowly.

“Huh? Oh, right.” Bucky cuts the last of his pork in two. “He said you’d come sweep me off your feet. And you did.”

“And you didn’t think I would?” Steve arches an eyebrow.

“I mean, I was hoping.” Bucky shrugs, forking one half of the pork and bringing it to his mouth.

“Well,” Steve says, “he was right. So he won.” He looks pityingly at Bucky. “What was the wager?”

“I told him I’d let him look at my arm,” Bucky says through his pork. He makes a low, pleased sound, reaching for his water again. With neither of them able to actually drink, there’s not much point in wasting money on wine.

Steve stares at him.

“I was gonna let him look at it eventually,” Bucky says, shrugging. “And he asked. So.” He shrugs again, finishing off his last bit of pork.

 _Hey, Soul Sister_ tinkles off the keys of the piano as the waitress takes their empty plates. Bucky orders them dessert even though Steve insists he’s full, and a few minutes later she places a ramekin of crème brûlée in front of Bucky and a goblet of banana mousse in front of Steve.

“This is fucking amazing,” Bucky groans, finishing off his first spoonful. “Jesus.”

“It’s pretty good,” Steve agrees, watching him with amusement.

Bucky cracks the rest of the burnt sugar and forks it up, slipping it between his teeth. He gives an ungodly moan as he licks the cream from his lips, tipping his head back and biting his lip.

An extra _F#_ slips into the melody of _The Only Exception,_ and is quickly covered up by a slew of notes skyrocketing up to the highest end of the piano’s spectrum.

“So,” Bucky says for the third time, stirring the cream around in the ramekin.

“Bucky,” Steve says.

“So,” Bucky says. “So.”

“What,” Steve says, “are you nervous?”

“Maybe a little.” Bucky shrugs. “You know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Abandoning the mousse, Steve sets his arms on the table, just looking at Bucky. “How long?”

Bucky drops his spoon into the ramekin. “Long enough,” he says. “Long enough to think of a hundred different places to take you, and not one of em’ would ever have been good enough for you.”

“I dunno,” Steve says, “this place is pretty nice.”

“’Nice’ ain’t good enough.”

“Told you, I don’t like being pampered.”

“Well, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Is it?”

“Uh huh.”

Steve’s hand rests by the candle. Bucky’s hand slots over it, as if it was meant to fit there from the very beginning.

“And why’s that?” Steve asks, watching as their fingers slide together.

“Because I like pampering you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky tears his eyes away from Steve’s, and looks over at the pianist.

“Hey,” he calls, and _The Only Exception_ slows down but doesn’t stop. “Hey, you know anything good?”

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve hisses.

“Um,” says the pianist.

“Old,” Bucky says, “ _old-_ old. We’re talkin’ classics.”

 _The Only Exception_ modulates up and changes into major, and suddenly it’s _The Power Of Love._

“Older,” Bucky says.

The music stops abruptly, and then, after a moment of thought, _Beyond The Sea_ eases off the keys.

 _“Older,”_ Bucky says.

Again, it stops. And then. And _then-_

Bucky grabs Steve’s wrists and pulls them both up from the table, out onto the floor.

“Bucky,” Steve says worriedly, looking around the room.

“Shh,” Bucky says, wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist. “C’mon, Steve, work with me.”

“You know I can’t dance,” Steve mumbles.

“It’s easy, just follow the beat.” He takes Steve’s other hand in his left, starting to rock them in place. _“One,_ two, three, _one,_ two three.”

Reluctantly, Steve begins stepping in time with the song. After a few measures, he gets the hang of it, tearing his eyes off their feet to look Bucky in the eyes.

“You remember this one, right?” Bucky asks quietly, starting to move them a little across the floor. Steve tries to follow in time, stuttering a little.

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning his head so their foreheads are touching. “Yeah, Buck.”

As if reading Bucky’s mind, the pianist cycles back to the intro, giving a slow rolled chord with a flourish at the end. Bucky smiles, pressing his cheek to Steve’s.

 _“I’ll be loving you,”_ he sings softly, rocking them one side to the other, _[“always.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXsIAY7fIc0)_

The piano sways in time with them, adding a soft descant on the top, above Bucky’s gravelly tone.

 _“With a love that’s true,”_ he continues, _“always.”_

Steve’s hand slides past Bucky’s shoulder and wraps around his neck.

 _“When the things you’ve planned,”_ Bucky sings, _“need a helping hand.”_ He spins them in a slow circle around the carpeted floor. _"_ _I will understand, always.”_

The chandelier above them dims ever so slightly- or maybe it’s just Steve’s imagination.

“I don’t remember the rest of the words,” Bucky admits quietly, but they keep dancing. Steve pulls his head back to look at his eyes again, and they’re not as sad as he’s expecting them to be.

“That’s all right,” he says, as the piano picks up the melody and makes it blossom into a dozen more harmonies that spill over each other. “You could sing those ones a hundred times over and it’d be perfect.”

“Sap,” Bucky chides.

“Only for you.”

Bucky settles for humming the melody as they waltz, only stopping to give Steve brief instructions for his footsteps. It’s as though they’re the only two people in the world, as if time itself has stopped, just for them. And well it should, Bucky thinks, they’ve deserved this.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t think. He presses his face into Bucky’s neck and lets the one, two three carry him along, Bucky’s arm solid around his waist.

He doesn’t realize until they’re four more verses in that the pianist is replaying the same song over and over, improvising new verse melodies along the way. He doesn’t realize until they’re another two in that he’s crying into Bucky’s suit jacket.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky says, when Steve sniffles. “What’s with the tears, huh?”

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, pulling back. “S’ just.”

“Just?” Bucky prompts.

“I never wanted to learn how to dance,” Steve admits, into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Never?”

“Well, not never.” Steve sniffs again. “I thought, you know, I thought-” Bucky’s hand on his waist tightens. “I thought you might, someday.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, encouraging him.

“But you weren’t here,” Steve says. “You weren’t here and- and I didn’t want-”

He presses his nose into Bucky’s neck.

“Come on,” Bucky murmurs, abandoning all pretense of keeping the waltzing position. He unlaces his fingers from Steve’s and laces them in his hair, rubbing his hand up and down Steve’s back. They still rock to the music, stuck in place. “Come on, none of that.”

Steve laughs into his skin, the arm around Bucky’s neck tightening.

“M’ just so happy,” he murmurs, and something in Bucky’s heart bursts.

“Yeah?” he says, working his thumb in slow circles on Steve’s scalp. “I’m happy, too.”

Steve pulls back and looks him in the eyes. He blinks, and his eyelashes spray Bucky’s cheeks with the tears threatening to spill.

“Well?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. Confused, Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky smirks. “You gonna kiss me or not, punk?”

Steve laughs, hoarse and relieved and tired and _happy._ Bucky laughs along with him, pressing their foreheads together again and smashing their cheeks against one another. Steve’s tears smear up against his- not that he’ll ever admit he’s crying, of course not- and he slides his hand out of Steve’s hair to cup his face, thumbs the tears out of Steve’s eyes, looks helplessly at him, and the piano rolls another long chord as the next verse prepares to start, and-

And Steve chokes out another watery laugh and says, “shoulda known you’d make me do all the work, you jerk.”

Outside the window, the stars twinkle and shine. The moon casts a glow on the city, barely visible over all the lights. The only light comes from the chandelier above them, cream frosted glass. It dims again as their mouths press together, just so. The new verse starts up again, slower and quieter than all the rest. They rock together, in time, hands intertwined.

 _Always,_ Steve thinks. _Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((a couple notes: according to the marvel wiki [here](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/1940s), steve crashes the plane on march 4th 1945, but Frank Sinatra didn't record this song until 1946. but my gay lil heart cant take it so youre just gonna have to use your imagination ok))  
>  ~~((also i didn't get any betas for this so all mistakes are mine))~~


End file.
